Chapter 11 #2
“Lords Montbrass and Severcombe will arrive in two days. This inspection matters more than you can understand.”
Aoife barely heard him. Each crack of the whip sliced through her like a blade.
When it finally stopped, she risked a glance.
The man sagged in his bonds, trembling. Two soldiers cut him down.
At her count it was only half a dozen lashes, but enough to cause lasting damage, enough to kill him if not treated properly.
“He’s lucky,” Halverton said lightly.
Aoife swallowed hard. “Lucky?”
Halverton continued walking, still holding her arm. He carried on as if there had been no interruption. “If this visit goes well, I might finally escape this place. I am wasted here. Everyone knows it. And you are going to help me prove it.”
“How am I going to do that, my lord?”
“Perception is often more important than truth. A bachelor past a certain age suggests instability. Impulse. A lack of… roots. A wife demonstrates permanence. Discipline. Good judgement.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“And since there are no suitable ladies in this godforsaken posting, I must be… resourceful.”
They reached the house.
“You have made impressive improvements,” he said, placing a hand on her lower back and guiding her towards the dining room. “Your posture, your table manners, your deportment have all significantly improved since the day you arrived. But there are still areas that need work.”
Inside the dining room, he gestured for her to sit. She did.
“I should have addressed this sooner,” he said as he laid out pieces of cutlery before her. “This is the order. Outer to inner. Soup spoon there. Fish knife here. And for the love of the Emperor, stop thanking the footmen.”
He stepped behind her, correcting the way she held a fork. His presence loomed over her shoulder, his voice warm against her ear.
“No, not like that,” he murmured, reaching down to guide her hand. His fingers closed around hers, adjusting her grip. “Gently.”
Aoife’s breath caught. She wanted to pull away, but she forced herself still. Think of something else, she commanded herself. Think of anything else.
It was Cormac who came to her mind.
Cormac’s fingers closing around hers to help her steady a snared rabbit.
Cormac’s hand reaching to steady her as they climbed.
But Cormac’s touch was warm, assured, nothing like this.
The thought made her chest ache.
“Aoife? Are you listening?” Halverton asked sharply.
“Yes. Sorry.”
He stepped away, satisfied that he’d corrected her. Aoife slid her hands beneath the table, rubbing them hard, trying to erase the ghost of his touch. Her skin prickled.
She shook out her fingers under the tablecloth, breath unsteady.
Halverton leaned in again, close enough that the heat of the candle touched one side of his face and threw the other into shadow. Aoife tried to focus on the fork in her hand, but the light caught the ruined skin along his cheek and temple, revealing every ridge and puckered seam.
She stared a heartbeat too long.
Halverton’s eyes flicked to hers. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m sorry,” Aoife said quickly, dropping her gaze. “I didn’t mean to…”
He held still for a moment, then nodded once. “It is all right.”
Aoife watched him from the corner of her eye as he straightened, the candlelight brushing over the network of scars. How much of him had burned that day? More than bone and flesh? Perhaps also whatever part of him had once held gentleness or mercy.
Was that the moment he changed? Was that the trauma that had shaped him?
He moved on to another instruction, another correction. His tone was almost warm now.
By the time the footmen arrived to prepare the room for dinner, Aoife’s head buzzed with rules and steps and phrases she could barely keep straight. Her back ached from holding the posture he demanded. Her fingers still tingled from where he’d touched them.
Halverton stood, smoothing down his waistcoat. “You have done well,” he said. “Better than I expected.”
Aoife blinked. “Thank you.”
He gave her a smile she had never seen before. It was unguarded, almost boyish for an instant. The scars around his mouth pulled strangely, but they softened too.
A strange flutter went through her. Unease, hope, fear. She couldn’t name it.
The dressing gong rang then.
He lingered half a second, looking like he was about to speak, then he turned and left her there in the quiet glow of the dining room.
Aoife sank into the chair once he was gone, hands pressed to her temples. Her thoughts raced between the man at the whipping post, Florence’s flowers, the scars, and the lessons she didn’t want to learn.
But above all, one thought hovered stubbornly.
Maybe Alton was right.
Halverton could be reached. She’d seen a shift tonight, a crack in the armour, a flicker of the man he might once have been.
And if she could reach him…
If she could bend him, even a little…
If she could make him see what was happening beyond his gates…
Then maybe she could help more than herself.
Maybe she could help everyone.
She drew a slow breath, steadying herself.
This was the long game.
And the game had finally begun.